James followed Elliot toward the long, elegantly set dining table nestled under the open-air Veranda Pavilion.
The breeze carried a subtle scent of fresh lavender and citrus, blending with the faint aroma of baked bread and wine.
Each seat was perfectly arranged with crisp name cards written in elegant cursive.
James scanned the table until he found his — "Mr. James Zolomon" — nestled between two names he didn't recognize.
He pulled out his chair and sat down gracefully, careful to adjust his blazer and remain composed.
The fabric of the chair was soft, the legs weighted to prevent even a squeak. Everything here — from the silverware to the angle of the wine glasses — screamed curated perfection.
Across the table, eyes occasionally drifted toward him. Some curious. Some dismissive. Others blank, practiced expressions of social neutrality.
